Often summer this year felt like I was stepping into an early grave, like some Middle aged asshole had opened the gates to the future with a warm spit in the face. A future full of responsibilities, debt and chores.
“Soz, off to Paris to do some work” became a copy n paste type text to the few people who wanted to see me in London. I felt smug. And why wouldn’t I, with “some work” begging the question of “what is she up to?” “What hasn’t she done?” and so on.
However this was all bravado glazing over the poo coloured doughnut of a job I was really about to do. It was sitting a dog, a French dog, (which made me feel slightly more cultured and interesting) but the feeling of inadequacy was still present. Her name was Bisou and I fell in love with her the minute we locked eyes.
At the beginning she had taken a strong liking to my Mom, who already has more admirers than me. To say I felt pretty neglected is an understatement. Consequently, I sat sulking, arms crossed and all. Once I got Bisou’s attention I would wave a dog treat in the air, as if to say ‘Think twice next time’.
The mornings started off the same; being woken up at 8am reluctantly to walk the dog. Being an ‘it girl’ means playing relevant music, so on our walks I would play Usher ‘Caught Up’ and Mims ‘This Is Why I’m Hot’.
I found listening to this music and imagining Bisou and I as the music video far too amusing.
Bisou would watch documentaries with me and bark at the screen. She’d also sometimes lick my face which made me feel..loved or whatever.
Then five days later she was taken back to her home. Not even a slow motion head turn from her. Nothing. Just a half-assed bark and tail wag. Nice one Bisou.